


tim drake and the terrible, horrible, no good very bad weekend

by therjolras



Series: we're totally like the mob [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-New 52, Whump, tim is everyone's favorite deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therjolras/pseuds/therjolras
Summary: this probably wasn't the right way to facilitate Tim and Bruce talking to each other again.alternate title: tim, the fact that you're alive is a miracle





	

**Author's Note:**

> EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY I'M BACK I think this is my favorite 'verse I've worked in so far, which is obvious because I've actually made another fic for it. thanks SO MUCH to everyone who's let me know they enjoyed the last one; it was so encouraging to think about while I was fighting my way through this one. for serious. I started this one because I was really bovvered by where RR left Tim and Bruce pre-flashpoint, and I wanted to give them a bit of a reconciliation I guess? then it spiralled out of control.
> 
> incidentally the only reason the alternate title is not the actual title is that I don't think I can maintain a series in which all the titles are hamilton references. I don't want to nurture that kind of expectation, so I won't. also incidentally you might notice tim is my favorite.

Bruce is at the computer when Alfred comes downstairs, moving with a purpose that means he carries a message, not refreshments. He stops at Bruce’s elbow and says, “I have just received a call from Miss Gordon. She informs me that Master Timothy has been taken to the emergency room at Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital with severe pneumonia.”

Bruce’s typing stalls.

“I am leaving for the hospital momentarily,” Alfred continues. “If you wish to accompany me, you should hurry. Master Dick and Master Damian are already on patrol-- the city will not burn down whilst you are preoccupied.”

Bruce gets up and stretches. He’s still in civvies-- had some work to do before leaving for patrol-- and Alfred turns and makes for the elevator without another word. Bruce, however, still has questions, and he makes a list as he walks. 

“How serious is it?”

“I was informed that he was in serious condition, but how serious had yet to be determined.”

“How did Barbara find out?”

“She has, apparently, been listed as Master Timothy’s emergency contact for situations such as this.”

“Who found Tim, then?”

“Miss Fox visited his apartment when he was absent from work without warning. She found him and immediately called for an ambulance, as far as I understand the situation.” The elevator doors open and the pair of them step out into the hall. Bruce’s immediate questions have been answered, and Alfred’s chilly demeanor suggests that he would rather not field further ones, but something has stuck out to Bruce and it’s worrying him.

“Why weren’t you or I listed as his emergency contact?” he says. “Or Dick?”

“Far be it from me to throw stones,” Alfred says blandly, “but I understand that Miss Gordon has actually been in contact with Master Timothy recently.”

With that ringer, he leads the way to the car in silence. Bruce calls Barbara on the way to the hospital and she gives the rundown in cool, clipped tones that tell Bruce exactly what she thinks about this whole situation without actually saying what she thinks about this whole situation.

There are a lot of things Bruce could be angry about right now. He could be angry about the fact that he only heard about this secondhand, from Alfred, on Alfred’s hasty way out the door. He could be angry about the fact that he is, in fact, the fifth to hear about it, after Barbara got the call and passed the information on to both Stephanie and Dick before she got around to calling Alfred and Alfred informed Bruce. He could even be angry about the fact that he wasn’t even on the list of people to call in an emergency like this. 

He’s not. He’s not angry about any of those things right now. Bruce is, in short, angry that had he been involved in this process at all, it would be  _ his  _ fault that his third son is in the hospital with pneumonia and he didn’t know until it was too late.

He and Alfred arrive and make their way up to the appropriate waiting room, and find they’re not alone. The waiting room is mostly empty-- it’s barely nine, and the majority of medical emergencies in Gotham don’t start coming in until nearly one-- but Dick is there, and he’s brought Damian, both of them looking like they changed in a hurry, and Barbara’s brought Stephanie, and a contingent of Titans has blatantly broken Batman’s rules and shown up. They don’t seem particularly intimidated by Bruce’s presence, either. He elects to ignore them and takes a seat next to Dick as Alfred moves off, probably to collect information or something of the sort. Dick, apparently busy texting someone, ignores Bruce in turn; Damian, however, leaves his seat next to Stephanie and joins Bruce.

“Father,” he says. “Explain.”

“Sorry?” Bruce says. Damian rolls his eyes-- an expression he definitely didn’t pick up from any of his associates in Gotham-- and says,

“Explain to me how Drake was enough of an imbecile to nearly kill himself and you were enough of a fool to let him.” Bruce had thought Dick wasn’t listening, but at this statement he snorts.

“Bruce doesn’t  _ let  _ Tim do anything,” he says. “You’d think he’d have figured that out by now, too.”

“Tim and I haven’t been talking much lately,” Bruce adds. “I’ve been busy. He’s been busy.” It’s true: what little he’s heard of Tim has been through the irregular filing of case reports, and memos from his office at WE which have been coming with less and less frequency of late. Damian huffs.

“Busy ignoring each other, perhaps,” he says, and returns to his seat next to Stephanie. Bruce notes with surprise that he’s left his back exposed to the three Titans sitting across the room.

“Dick,” he says, “Did you try to pair Damian up with the Teen Titans?”

Dick glances up at him, then Damian, then at the knot that is Kon-El, Bart Allen, and Cassandra Sandsmark. “They did a couple of missions together,” he says. “Not a match, in the end, but they parted on civil terms. Guess you missed it, being ‘busy’ and stuff.” He goes back to his phone. Alfred returns, in the company of a nurse who looks like he’s been at work for too many hours already.

“Miss Gordon?” The nurse says, and everyone snaps to attention. Barbara straightens in her seat and beckons to Bruce before saying,

“That’s me.”

The nurse nods, ignoring Bruce rising to his feet and crossing the room. He goes on, “Mister Drake-Wayne-Whatever is unconscious right now. We’ve got him on fluids, antibiotics and such, which would usually be all that needs to be done, but thanks to a certain complication your British friend was already aware of--”

“The splenectomy,” Barbara guesses, and horror makes a funny twist in Bruce’s gut--

“Yeah, that, his immune system’s completely shot and recovery’s gonna be real touch and go for a while. Also, because it took him this long to get any treatment, his respiratory system’s deteriorating, so we’ve got him on a ventilator. If you didn’t know it already, that girl who brought him in’s a hero. He wouldn’t have lasted the week on his own.” The nurse, finished unloading all of his bad news, lowers his clipboard and folds his arms. “I suppose you  _ all  _ want to visit him?” His eyes track past Barbara and Bruce to Damian and Steph, to the three Titans, to Dick. Barbara says,

“Of course. Cass, Bart, Connor? I know you’re anxious.”

The Titans jump to their feet, Cassandra placing a firm hand on Bart’s shoulder to keep him from moving too quickly. The three of them do not hide their identities as well as they might. Even in civilian clothes, they radiate strength; they are merely lacking the hard edges that compose a seasoned hero. Now, for the first time since he arrived, they look to Bruce; he knows what they’re looking for, and he nods. They nod back and follow the nurse out of the room. Bruce returns to his seat. He waits.

The three Titans return, and linger long enough to farewell Barbara and Stephanie and Damian before hurrying out. Barbara doesn’t look to Bruce before she wheels after the nurse, taking Steph with her. Damian, after a moment’s hesitation, hurries after them. He returns within a few minutes, alone, and throws himself into the seat next to Bruce. He says nothing, even as Stephanie and Barbara return and Dick and Alfred make the next visit and Stephanie and Barbara leave. On her way out, Stephanie pauses at Bruce’s elbow.

“It’s bad,” she says. “But. If you stay, it will help.” She levels him a glare that she’s undoubtedly learned from Barbara, and Bruce nods. She leaves.

Minutes drag by in which Bruce waits, patient, before Damian declares,

“I don’t like it, Father.”

“Hmm?” Bruce replies.

“This isn’t--” Damian says, and groans, and tries to speak several times before he finally finds words. “This isn’t how Drake should die, Father. It’s not right.”

“Which is why he’s not going to die,” Bruce says, as firmly as he can bring himself to manage. 

“ _ He could have _ !” Damian cries, sounding for all the world like the eleven-year-old he actually is. “He still might! Even now, surrounded by all the might of so-called modern medicine, his life is at risk! Of all the  _ stupid-- _ ”

“Damian,” Bruce says gently. “Do you want Tim to die?”

There’s a pause. Then, “ _ No, _ ” Damian says, burying his head in his hands. Bruce hesitates,  _ too long too long _ before laying his hand on Damian’s shoulder. There’s nothing he can say here; they sit in tense silence, Bruce swaying back and forth between pride for one son and worry for another, until Dick and Alfred return. Bruce waits until Dick takes a seat on Damian’s other side and lays a hand on Damian’s other shoulder to get to his feet. 

“Damian and I will take care of tonight,” Dick says. “You take care of Tim.”

“I will,” Bruce says. He follows the nurse back through two identically unwelcoming hallways to a door that looks like all of its unwelcoming neighbors, and the nurse halts at the threshold.

“Someone’ll be in to check on him later,” he says. “Just try not to get in the way.”

“Will do,” Bruce says, and he means it. The nurse opens the door and walks away. Bruce takes the seat at Tim’s bedside and waits for his eyes to adjust. It’s too dark to tell much: he can see the dull sheen of a few discreet tubes, the glow of machines, can hear the hum of the hum of the ventilator and the _ beep-bip _ of the heart monitor, but the sights and sounds are impersonal. They could be true of anyone; what cannot be found, yet, is a sign of  _ Tim.  _ Anything to indicate that the bed is occupied by his  _ son  _ (his son, his  _ son,  _ repeat it until he remembers it’s true), the quiet, brilliant boy he’s managed to drift so far away from.

He senses the presence outside the door just before it opens, and the light from the hall silhouettes a young woman who steps into the room and immediately grinds to a halt at the sight of Bruce getting to his feet. “Oh-- Mr. Wayne, I’m, so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude--”

“No, it’s alright,” Bruce says, dropping his voice to sickroom tones. “Tamara, correct? Barbara says you called the ambulance.”

“I-- yes, I did,” Tamara says, only a little reassured. “I stayed just to, um, grab a few things for him, when I got here the nurse said I could come back--”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Bruce says. “Thank you, Tamara.”

“Tam.”

“Tam,” Bruce corrects himself. “You saved my son.”

“Yeah, well. Guess I owed him a few,” Tam says, a little subdued. Then, “Did you know your ‘son’ is insane, Mr. Wayne?” She adds, coming farther into the room and setting a backpack by the foot of the bed. Bruce recognizes it as one of Tim’s-- from his Robin days. It used to have pins on it. 

“I’ve had a notion,” Bruce says. Dry enough to startle a laugh out of Tam.

“Not like you can talk, huh?” She says. “I, um. I’d better go. Stuff’s going to snowball at WE, just ‘cause he isn’t there. Murphy’s Law and everything. Goodnight, Mr. Wayne.” She reaches for Tim’s prone form, hesitantly, then jerks her hand away and hurries from the room.

“Goodnight, Tam,” Bruce says as the door closes behind her. He takes his seat by the bed again, and allows himself a sigh. Were this one of  _ those  _ weeks, this would be a prime opportunity to catch up on lost sleep, or at least to meditate and clear his head, seperate himself from the guilt that’s pervading his system, but either of those options feel too much like leaving Tim alone. He’s done that too much already.

He hunkers down in the hard chair, turns his head towards Tim, and settles down to wait. There are few places (very few, borderline nonexistent) in which Stephanie Brown has him beat, but other people is certainly one of them. If she says with such certainty that this will be good for Tim, then Bruce will do it.

===

He wakes up from a doze-- a quick, vigilant sleep Dick occasionally refers to as “Batnapping”-- to the sense that something has changed. He opens his eyes and looks at Tim, and finds his son’s eyes open; they shift back and forth blearily, a clear attempt to case the situation, before at him in turn. “B?” He croaks.

“Tim,” Bruce replies, pushing himself up in his seat. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Tim takes in a raspy, wheezing breath. “Tired,” he manages. “Like… my lungs tried to go six rounds with a meat tenderizer. And lost.” His gaze drops, away from Bruce, and then back up again, searching his face with a surprising urgency. “That-- s’that you, Bruce?”

“It’s me,” Bruce says. “I’m here.”

Tim nods. And “You’re real?” He says, like he can’t even be sure. Bruce wonders,  _ can hallucinations be a symptom of pneumonia? _ And nods back. Reaches, uncertain, for Tim’s hand, and Tim doesn’t pull away. His eyes are filling with tears, spilling down his cheeks and down the sides of the ventilator mask. “I saw-- I thought--”

“Ssh, it’s alright,” Bruce says, because he doesn’t need an explanation when one of his sons is crying on what could have been his deathbed. Tim tugs at his hand, a flimsy gesture from a boy-turning-man who can toss beings twice his size. Bruce gets up and sits next to Tim on the bed, pulls him into his arms. Careful not to jostle the ventilator mask as Tim buries his face in Bruce’s sweater and begins to cry in earnest. For a long, awful moment he just cries, and Bruce waits, wishing desperately for something to say, for the whole story, for a way to ease whatever pain Tim’s feeling. After that long, awful moment, though (or several of them), Tim takes another rattling breath and falls silent, slumping bodily onto Bruce. Another long moment later, his labored breathing slows and Bruce knows he’s fallen asleep. Or, perhaps, simply passed out from exertion. He shifts Tim and himself into a slightly more comfortable position and settles down, this time with questions but also with Tim’s living, breathing weight in his arms. He closes his eyes and he waits.

A tap on glass does not startle him, but it does bring him to. He opens his eyes and looks, and tries not to start at the sight of a maskless Jason Todd holding up empty hands on the far side of the window. Seemingly satisfied with his gesture of peace, Bruce’s second son opens the window and climbs through.

“No fear, B-Man, I’ve turned a leaf,” he says tiredly, holding up his empty hands again as he crosses the room-- slowly, calmly. He’s in civvies, though still sporting the leather jacket he wears as the Red Hood, and Bruce can only see one weapon-- a knife strapped to his thigh. It’s not even a very impressive knife. “Heard the replacement was in bad shape,” Jason goes on, pausing just within arm’s reach. “I’d be real disappointed if all the work I’ve put in recently to keep him alive was for nothing.” He falters there, clearly torn between wariness and worry. Bruce falters as well, still trying to catch up with this wary, soft-spoken man wearing his son’s face.

“Tim’s been working with you?” He says, shifting his hold on him. Jason snorts and says,

“Of course you didn’t know. Yeah, he called me months ago. Offered to trade information for information. Information led to a fight, he invited me along, baby-sat by his Titans buddies, of course. Just in case. After we decided that we didn’t want to kill each other, we got along fine.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, apparently decided on wariness. Bruce casts around for a reply and decides on,

“Okay.”

Jason blinks. Then he snorts, and then he reaches out and ruffles Tim’s messy, greasy hair before turning his back to Bruce and heading towards the window. “Goodnight, B,” he says, without a hint of unease. “Or good morning, I guess. Been wild. Tell Babybird I said feel better.” He climbs out the window and closes it behind him. Tim’s eyes flicker open.

“B?” He mumbles.

“I’m here,” Bruce says. “Jason just left. He said ‘Feel better’.”

Tim says, “Mmf.” Then, “S’nice of him. Guess… he was real, too?”

“Probably,” Bruce says. “I mean, I’m quite lucid, but the experience was strange.” Tim snorts.

“Y’get used to it,” he says. “Jason. He w’s… my hero, y’know.”

“That so,” Bruce says. “He was my hero, too.”

“Yeah, right,” Tim says. “Y’just liked to feel guilty about him. Still do. Jus’ another reason why y’r full of shit--” He probably has more to say (he usually does), but a bout of coughing cuts him off. The fit is terrifying-- for several minutes he struggles to breathe, his whole body shaking in exertion, and Bruce can do nothing but loosen his grip as Tim bends almost double, just shy of smashing his face into his knees with every cough. After a few minutes it subsides. Tim lifts a hand to wipe his streaming eyes and drops it back into his lap with a sigh; Bruce does it for him, as gently as he can. Tim drops his head back against Bruce’s chest and takes a deep, rattling breath.

“I woke up Monday too weak to move,” he mumbles. “At least. I think it was Monday.”

“Tim,” Bruce begins. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, but it winds up not mattering because Tim plows right over him.

“Th-thought it w’s just a cold. I’d been... dealing with it. For a couple of days. Then I just… couldn’t. I kept waking up and every time I did I tried to get up, to get some water, call for help, anything, but I could barely move. I wound up lying sideways on my bed thinking about the Clench. D’you… remember the Clench?”

Bruce draws in a short, harsh breath. His stomach twists unpleasantly. “How could I forget?” He says.

Tim draws in another rattling breath. “I had this dream. When I was... y’know. That my dad came and found me, and he said that I was cured and that he knew that I was Robin and that it was okay, that everything was gonna be okay.” He falters. “Then I’d wake up. An’ my dad still didn’t know that I was dying.”

“Tim,” Bruce whispers, because Tim is drawing a parallel here and it’s indicating something horrifying. Tim shakes his head and presses it further into Bruce’s chest, and his voice is muffled as he goes on,

“You were  _ gone _ , I didn’t-- I didn’t know where you were, or what you were doing, or if you’d even know if I died. I thought I was going to _ die _ and I didn’t even remember the last thing I’d said to you.” His voice wobbles. He fumbles for Bruce’s hand on his arm, finds it and holds on, and Bruce can feel him shaking in a way that has nothing to do with his labored breathing. It occurs to Bruce now-- not for the first time, nor the last-- that he’s the one who told Tim that it wasn’t right to not know where your family was. Especially not for a kid. It occurs to Bruce that he’s become Tim’s first parents, the ones that took off globetrotting without a backward glance or a warning of when they might come home.

“I’m here,” he says, pulling Tim a little closer. “I’m here, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

===

Tim spends three days at Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital, in a private room off the ICU, with his oxygen supplemented and fluids flowing back into his body around the clock. He sends most of his time sleeping. Tam sent him a few things from his apartment-- his phone, laptop, a spare bo staff for paranoia, and a Gotham U sweater Steph gave him-- but the sweater’s the only one that sees much use. He’s far too tired for the rest of it, or for much company.

(He felt like an ass saying that to Dick, that first morning after. After he fell asleep a second time in Bruce’s arms and woke up alone with a hastily scribbled note the only indication his surrogate father was ever there. He’d been so tired that morning, tired and bitter and particularly humiliated for losing his composure like he had, but he’d done his best not to take it out on Dick. Just told him quietly that he wasn’t up for company yet, maybe when he got out of the hospital. When this episode of  _ Tim’s Greatest Fuck-Ups  _ was over. When pigs flew.)

So far everyone’s honored his wishes and left him alone, although Tim doesn’t think he dreamt the Bat standing at the foot of his bed two nights in a row. On the third night he sleeps through the night without once waking up struggling to breathe, so he obviously doesn’t encounter creepers; on the fourth morning, Alfred comes to take him home. Neither of them have to speak for Tim to know that  _ home  _ means the Manor, not the apartment on Park Row. He doesn’t bother to protest. Alfred sees him through the last gauntlet of checkups and prescriptions and makes the necessary pickups, and then he drives them both up to the Manor and any feelings of apprehension Tim might have been having are overcome by his stupid impulsive  _ hope. _ Hope for what, he’s not sure.

Dick is, of course, already at the manor, and he hovers and waits long enough for Alfred to get Tim settled in before breaching the sickroom and flopping facedown on the bed next to Tim. “Hey, Tim,” he says, muffled by the blanket. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Tim replies, automatic. It’s apparently the wrong answer, because Dick rolls over and shoots Tim the most terrifying glare Dick is capable of giving. Because it’s just Dick, without the power of the mask or the boots that boost him up that crucial couple of inches, it’s not actually that terrifying. Then Dick says, in a strained voice, “Tim. You almost died of pneumonia. I can  _ hear  _ your lungs doing their very, very best. Please stop bullshitting me.”

Tim has the good graces (he thinks) to be a little bit embarrassed. “I feel like crap,” he replies, “But I will not be joining Steph’s ‘dead robins society’ anytime soon, so that feels like a plus.”

“Good point,” Dick says. Then, “That’s a little macabre of her, isn’t it? To make a club out of it? Who even is in it, aside from her and Damian?” Tim doesn’t say anything, but he does give Dick a Look. It takes Dick a minute, but then he swears. “ _ Jason? _ ”

“He’s doing his best,” Tim says. “Which is as much as any of us can say, sometimes.” Dick nods. And frowns a little bit, but he’s still nodding, which Tim takes as a win.

“Alright,” Dick says. “We’ll talk about that later. Alfred said any strenuous talk was to wait until you were capable of engaging in fisticuffs, so maybe tomorrow. I brought Gravity Falls?”

Tim decides not tell Dick he’s finally overestimated him, and instead says, “Sure.”

===

His visitors usually come alone. Alfred is in and out, and Damian pokes his head in for thirty seconds after “school” every day like clockwork, and Steph comes in the evenings before patrol to gossip about costumed lunatics. Cassandra appears on the third day at the manor, having apparently flown in from Hong Kong as soon as she could. She sits next to him on the bed and they spend several hours just talking, about things that have fallen by the wayside over months of long-distance calls and business trips. Barbara wheels in whenever she has the time (coordinating a city full of superheroes, not to mention consulting for the freaking Justice League, takes up a lot of hours) but doesn’t stay long, although Tim suspects it’s more due to the awkward conversation than to a tight schedule. 

On the fifth day, Tim jerks awake to find himself privy to a bedful of Teen Titans. Most significantly, Bart Allen is sprawled across his lap and glowering at him, a combination that fails to intimidate but completely succeeds in making Tim feel very guilty. “Um, hi?” 

“You,” Cassandra Sandsmark declares from somewhere by the foot of his bed, “are an idiot. In fact, you’re not just  _ an  _ idiot, you’re  _ the  _ idiot. The idiot to end all idiots.”

“We’re all very mad at you,” Kon adds. He’s stretched out next to Bart’s feet, perfectly at home. His eyebrows do look a little worried, but it’s just the look Tim usually gets after doing something phenomenally reckless. “I mean, isn’t the rule that you  _ call  _ one of us when you run a chance of dying? Seriously, we set that rule for a reason.”

“I wanted to,” Tim mumbles, instead of arguing. “I wanted to, I swear, just… some of us are human, y’know.”

“We’re aware,” Kon says, “Which is why we’re here. And not waiting for you to come back to the tower so we can kick your ass.” He reaches across Bart to pat Tim’s hand, condescendingly. Tim decides he doesn’t have the energy to swat back yet. He settles for,

“How, exactly, are you here? And how has Batman not kicked you out?”

Bart snorts. “I think he’s letting us stay ‘cause he feels guilty. Babs called us the night you got admitted, which was nice, ‘cause we were wondering why you missed last weekend--”

“Sorry,” Tim mumbles, because apparently he forgot to call even before he couldn’t move--

“So we hightailed it in from our various corners of the world and when we got here, Bam! There was the Batdad in all his daddish glory, with his various bat-minions around him, but he totally didn’t seem to care we were there. Or if he did, he was too worried about you to think about it. We got to visit while you were unconscious-- by the way, you looked like crap-- and then we booked it. When we didn’t get an angry letter by yesterday-- which by the way was another weekend you missed-- we decided screw it, let’s go check on Tim. So here we are. You’ve been recapped.”

“And Batdad’s not pissed off at us yet, so that’s a plus,” Kon adds. “Not that we’ve seen him yet. He could be, like, end-of-all-things raging mad and we wouldn’t know.”

“You haven’t seen him either?” Tim says, which is apparently the wrong question, because they turn on him like he suggested Commissioner Gordon makes a side living skinning puppies. 

“He hasn’t  _ visited _ ?” Cassie says. Tim shrugs.

“Unless you count when I was unconscious, no,” he says. “And even that might have been me dreaming. I don’t know.” His three best friends simultaneously facepalm. “In all fairness,” Tim adds, hoping it’ll defuse the tension, “Jason hasn’t visited either.”

It doesn’t work. ‘“ _D_ _ ude, _ ” Bart says, “Jason isn’t your  _ dad. _ ”

===

His conversation with the three of them sticks with him the next couple of days, well after it dwindles into other, sillier topics and the tension dissipates from the sickroom. Their company buoys him up, too, even after they leave that evening, mostly kept through phone conversations (as Tim doesn’t have much energy for texting yet). The other Titans visit too, or call, and he feels more grounded over those two days than he has in weeks.

Then, on the morning of that third day (the eighth since he’s been home), he wakes up to find Bruce asleep at his bedside. He looks exhausted: dressed in sweats, unshaven, his hair askew and just shy of dried, all of which adds up to him coming here after a very long night. One his his eyes has been blackened, but several days ago; it’s faded, turning yellow. He doesn’t even stir when Tim rolls over to face him. The evidence all points to Bruce having put himself through hell over the past week, and for some reason that’s reassuring to Tim. That Bruce’s habits haven’t changed at all and this time, they’re for Tim’s sake.

Maybe later he’ll wake up and there will be explanations, or maybe awkward silence, or maybe Bruce will hastily excuse himself and Tim won’t see him ‘til he gets back on his feet. For now, though, Tim just curls up and goes back to sleep, happy to know where his father has been. Happy that his father is here. Happy to know what that stupid, impulsive, hope was for.

===

“B?”

“Hey, Tim. How are you feeling?”

“Slightly less like my lungs tried to go six rounds with a meat tenderizer. Still pretty tired. You?”

“Pretty tired. On top of catching up with things at WE, Scarecrow chose this week to break out and make trouble, so I’ve been on the clock pretty much nonstop. Stephanie and Dick actually helped me put him back just a couple of hours ago.”

“Dick’s been here a couple of times. Guess he’s just better at juggling?”

“For the most part, he’s been looking after the rest of Gotham while I try to track Scarecrow. He’s had more time.”

“I figured, I’m sorry. I’m just… bitter, I guess. I missed you. Scarecrow? Did he--”

“I’m afraid so. Seems folks have noticed Red Robin’s been off the streets, and Scarecrow thought history was repeating itself. He took me for an easy target, which I probably was. Until Stephanie decided the whole thing had gone too far and came to assist me, anyway.”

“Good for Steph. And you’re okay, now, right? Because this sickroom only has room for one convalescent.”

“I’m alright. I just wanted to visit. I haven’t been here since Scarecrow broke out, so I’ve had to rely on secondhand sources for information on your wellbeing. I. I missed you.”

“Aw, B. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Tim.”

**Author's Note:**

> the Clench: during Batman: Contagion Tim is infected with this super evil virus that's decimating Gotham and throughout Detective Comics #696, Azrael (1995) #16, and Batman Chronicles #4 he's, uh, kind of dying. I thought about that a lot whilst writing a story in which he almost died. fun stuff.
> 
> damian was a member of the titans for like five issues in 2010! they had some fun, by which I mean he and ravager became bros and the rest of the gang kinda just tolerated him. he joined in #88 and stayed on until Tim rejoined in #92.
> 
> also my beta kinda got confused/endeared by the fact that the titans just popped up in the beginning. it is both adorable and canon that they kinda drop everything to look out for each other-- they show up out of nowhere in RR #12 to help Tim out and are referenced as raiding the Wayne Manor kitchen even after the resolution. it's adorable.
> 
> that's all the really dumb stuff that I worried about going through this. "yo, thera, what did you do today?" "I put a list of citations after a fanfic about batman wishing he'd hugged his adopted kid more." 
> 
> if you're curious as to where I go between installments, hit me up on tumblr @captainpeggys. thanks so much for reading (if you made it this far)! remember to leave a comment and stuff, and i'll see you next time. :-)


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